


Never Second Best

by SharpestKnife



Series: No Snow [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, Loud Sex, M/M, Memories, Oral Sex, Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:26:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men in the room, but a third in Robb's mind, and Theon will fill him until he forgets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Second Best

**Author's Note:**

> The spiritual successor to [this one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/907717).

Theon wakes. With a start, as they say, and it's sudden, because he knows that there's something amiss. Also, something on the bed beside him. It's not a pleasant discovery. He's quite sure he hadn't stumbled back with a whore tonight. It's dark and sleep is still blurring his eyes so he can't quite see, and the best course of action is to reach for the dagger he keeps under the pillow. Then he remembers that he doesn't keep anything there, so he balls his hand into a fist, quite ready to pummel, when the body reacts to the stirring on the bed and speaks in a hoarse but all too familiar voice. 

"Theon?"

"Robb?"

His eyes adjust to what little light there is, and yes, it's Robb on the bed. He's laying on his arm like a pillow, and a faint blush creeps to Theon's neck when he realizes that Robb fell asleep facing him. He tries to remind himself that there's no reason to be embarrassed, because it's just Robb, just him and his eyes and his mouth, and Theon finds himself swallowing.

"What are you doing here?"

Robb shifts a little and gives a faint, sleepy moan. The answer is quite clear on his face, and Theon remembers that Robb hasn't come to his chambers in a long, long time, because he'd been busy at play in a different part of the castle, until someone had left. Envy is a familiar but unwelcome friend, and it settles like a rock in his belly.

Robb's just about to speak, and the answer doesn't come fast enough, so instinct takes over and a bladed remark forces its way out of Theon's mouth before he can stop it. "It looks like you're lost. The bastard's in his chamber." And he really can't stop. "No, wait… He's up in the north. Go find him there."

He had meant to shut his eyes and go back to sleep, but a tremor creeps over Robb's face and his lip starts to curl. Theon sits up and rubs at his hair in frustration, because now he gets to apologize.

"I didn't mean that. It just… Sorry."

Robb blinks, then shifts again. There's a rustle over the pelts as his hand reaches out, and Theon's mouth goes dry. "It was cold in my room."

"Reason enough for you to sleep here, I suppose. Without your shirt. Or your breeches."

The tiny smile on Robb's lips almost pokes its way through his thorny exterior, and he sees that it's trying to convey something else. 

"Maybe I was lonely, too."

That's reason enough, and now Theon's crawling to his side of the bed and clambering on top of him, and he thinks back to that crucial moment when he decided it was to his advantage to sleep in the buff. _It helps to be prepared_ , he had thought, in case someone comes knocking, or in the off chance that, as on this night, a tasty morsel finds its way to him.

Robb's hand is on his cock, and Theon can feel a hardening grow beneath him, and it's an enjoyable reminder of how they were mostly no longer boys. The shape underneath him is still changing, and he tries to hide his surprise when he realizes just how much Robb has grown. He reaches down, and now they're linked, and the feel of Robb's damp cock on his palm is strangely different, but familiar. They'd touched each other, once, when Robb had come to him brimming with curiosity and adolescent heat, and it was definitely different from tumbling and tossing with a woman, but not without its unique thrills. Theon recalls how he's never been picky either way, and he laughs.

The pleasure is written all over Robb's face in little creases, and there's a whine in the back of his throat. He'd only seen Robb like this once, and he winces with the sting of memory. It had been a good night at the brothels, and he wanted to gloat as he always did, so he stumbled to Robb's chamber thinking to shove him awake and make him listen. But the door wasn't latched when he got there, and it really should have been, because what Theon saw sent a spike of resentment through him, and a bitter longing for something he didn't know he wanted. 

What he saw past the door was the moist white expanse of the bastard's back as he entered Robb again and again, and the cold blue of Robb's eyes gone hot with fire and madness as he bucked and writhed with each of his thrusts. That night would have been forgettable if it hadn't left such a scar, and Theon has played it out countless times in his head, wondered at how Robb's face would look if it was his cock hidden to the hilt inside of him. And now he has his answer as Robb thrashes under his weight, clawing and running shaking fingers over his cock, but his eyes are closed and Theon wants to wrench them open, but he won't touch, can't touch, so he gives in to defeat and begs instead.

"Robb. Please. Open your eyes."

Robb does, and they're hazed over with desire and fervent want. The searing color of them burns a brilliant blue hole in the back of Theon's skull, and it's everything he imagined but harsher, colder. Robb's hands find their way to his hair, pulling him down, and Theon's heart lurches when he sees wet teeth and finally notices that Robb has parted his lips.

They do not kiss. He wants to, but he doesn't, because he's afraid to murmur Robb's name into his mouth, doesn't want him to understand the fullest extent of his longing. He'll gladly nip at his ears, slide his teeth over his neck, swallow his cock, but he refuses to tread close to the forbidden ground of Robb's perfect red mouth, because he knows that the pleasure will be laced with a pain he doesn't want to bear. He knows where those lips have been and he wants to scrub them of every trace of someone, everyone else before he'll explore them.

He shifts his hips forward and sighs when the diversion works. Robb's eyes gleam at the sight of his cock, and he pulls it closer and _gods, those lips_. It's another of Theon's familiar friends, and one he eagerly welcomes as he strains not to shove himself whole into Robb's eager mouth. He feels his tongue running over the seam of his cock and reaches back to return the favor with rough fingers. Robb moans into him, and it becomes a delicate thrum that runs through his body. He slides a finger over Robb's lip and edges back, meaning to be playful. His cock slips out and Robb's mouth makes a delicious, wet pop.

"How does it taste, Lord Stark?"

Robb doesn't hear him mock, or maybe chooses to ignore it, and he smiles loosely from underneath him. "Different."

Again it's an acknowledgement that Robb has something to compare this to at all, and again he feels a pang of annoyance. He flips Robb over, and the boy lord gasps in surprise, then whimpers. He runs his tongue along the length of Robb's spine, smiles to himself when he hears a second gasp, and makes his way down until his mouth finds another set of lips, and now Robb is trembling. He buries his face in that secret part of him, then remembers there's some other treasure he wants buried there, and Robb whines low and needy when Theon flies off the bed to find something to ease his entry.

It only takes a moment and he's back on the bed soon, or perhaps too soon, because he can't remember if the little glass bottle is lamp oil or liquid salve but it's slick and warm on his cock, and if it's good enough for him, then it had better fucking well be good enough for Robb. He slips his fingers in and Robb buckles again, and Theon remembers that he doesn't need all that loosening. He's used to it, and the remembrance brings back a stab of envy, and he lets it jolt out of him when he pushes his cock full and hard into the heir of Winterfell. Robb screams.

And now he's forgotten again, because he's fully embedded in the moment, and _in Robb_ , and his thrusts are full and long, touching the very depths of him. Robb fights to keep still but he's squirming, writhing against every stroke, his hips bearing down for more of Theon's length, and the ironborn shudders as he tempers in the blazing pit of fire and moist he's discovered.

Robb is whimpering now, twisting, and Theon can't help but throw himself lower, pressing against his back and holding him down to restrain every buck and quiver, so that the strength of them is never wasted and only spent on squeezing tighter and harder around him. He hears what Robb is moaning, and it's a name, and it's not his name.

The jealousy wrenches through him like a spear, washes cold and cutting through his body, but it doesn't slow him. Theon steadies his legs and starts thrusting harder, faster and deeper, and he savors the pain that he hears in the wail pouring out of Robb's wet mouth. Robb is caught on the edge of screaming, his hungry groans echoing around the chamber, and Theon doesn't care if anyone hears. 

"Louder, Stark," he says through gritted teeth. "Let the castle hear. Scream forever. Scream until they hear you in King's Landing." He bends closer to his ear. "Scream until he hears you and dies on the Wall."

Robb's moaning becomes more desperate, and Theon flinches when he hears the undercurrent of longing. He'll never admit how the jealousy burns him like frost, but he will definitely submit to anger. He pushes his nails deep into Robb's hip, means to draw blood, and he buckles with rage when it doesn't come. Robb's squealing grows harder and more urgent, and that's almost enough. Theon grinds into him with such force that it threatens to break him, bring the walls down all around them, and crush the continents and the world and the seven hells. His hips slam into Robb and he doesn't care if it hurts, and he knows that it does, so he keeps boring through him with more fury than he's ever put into anything or anyone.

 _I'll fuck him out of you_. _I'll fuck the memory of him right out of you._

The tightness and heat are too much, and the brutal slap of his skin against Robb's edges a hoarse groan out of Theon's gaping mouth. He likes it this way, rough and entirely too hard, and it maddens him when the women he pays or maids far below his station even think to to complain, but Robb bears the brunt of his wrath and positively bristles from the strokes, and he wonders if it's because he likes it this way, too. 

It's a thought that is barely worth consideration when he hears that Robb is already keening, and he pushes his hips far against Theon's belly. Robb shudders, then his back goes tense, and the bed underneath them is flooding with seed. Theon hisses as he feels fire welling up in his hips, and he buries his teeth in Robb's neck. He groans through the force of one final, harsh thrust and he spills the fullness of himself into the heir of Winterfell. _And now he's the whore of Winterfell_ , Theon thinks, and he smirks, but the thought is too cruel and he bites down on his lip to keep from sharing it.

But it was over too soon and he still wants to hurt him. He wants to slap him, maim him until he forgets, but then Robb would know how much he hurts, and Theon doesn't ever want him to know. Robb slumps to the bed and rolls over, heaving and shaking through a mist of tears and sweat. Theon watches him and smugly admires his handiwork. He's slick, and he's dripping, thin rivulets trickling down the groove in his chest and through the hair at his belly, _and I made him this way_.

Robb sighs, then whispers Theon's name. Theon knows that he's thinking of someone else's face, someone else's body and cock when he says it, but he lets himself believe for a moment that it's him Robb wants. The rage is still clumped in his chest, but Theon can't help soften when he sees how every drawn breath makes Robb's body glisten in the dim light, how his red mouth pulses as he struggles for air. He tries to pull away, unsuccessfully, when Robb's hand loops around his wrist then tangles into his fingers.

And now Robb's mouth is on his, too eager and hungry, and it's alarming how the softness of it doesn't send the blood rushing back into Theon's hips. The tenderness makes him want to retch, but he kisses back and his rage is even greater. It's a crushing defeat, and now Robb knows from the desperation of his tongue, understands with every hushed whimper that leaks out of him, just how much he's always wanted this, and Robb's mouth, and beyond that still more. It's warm, and it's wet, and Theon somehow forgets his anger, because somewhere in the back of his mind, the kiss feels like the shadow of an apology.

Their mouths are still touching, their tongues and struggling breaths a bridge between them, and the hurting comes back. Theon doesn't want it this way, wants the poison and the taint of longing and memory driven out of Robb's body before he'd even consider giving in, but it's far too late for pride. He can't fight, not anymore. Disappointment and anger course through his blood like soured wine, and the jealousy is thick and sharp, but he's surprised when it's touched with just a whisper of taunting fondness. _Snow,_ he thinks _, you really are such a fucking bastard._


End file.
